Chapter 3: Café Beginnings & Rising Streams

The scent of hot coffee and synthetic leather filled Arthur's nose as he awoke the next morning in the upstairs staff room. The mattress beneath him was thin but warm, the blanket slightly frayed but clean. Outside the door, faint sounds echoed—muffled voices, a whirring auto-kettle, and the soft hiss of a gaming pod's air seal disengaging.

For a moment, Arthur just stared at the ceiling, letting the rhythm of unfamiliar domesticity wrap around him. It had been years since he'd heard such gentle, human sounds without the metallic ring of a soldier's barracks or the ghostly hum of a hospital corridor.

So this is peace, he thought. It's not as empty as I imagined.

Work in the Café

Days passed quickly. Arthur picked up tasks with clinical precision—checking diagnostics on the VR pods, wiping down helmets and nerve-link cables, ensuring the server didn't overheat, fixing bugged firmware patches that occasionally popped up. At night, he shifted to waiting tables: delivering drinks, light meals, and recharge stimulants to gamers locked in for long VR sessions.

Alice handled the front desk. She greeted customers with a charm that felt both practiced and honest. She tracked reservations, processed payments, and always had something witty to say—especially when regulars tried flirting with her or talked trash about her stream rank.

Arthur worked mostly in silence. Focused. Efficient. But Alice noticed everything.

"You're not like most guys I've worked with," she remarked one afternoon as he repaired a malfunctioning stim-gel line.

"Most guys don't listen when I explain things. You do."

Arthur barely looked up. "You explain things well."

She smirked. "So you do speak during the day."

He allowed himself the smallest hint of a smile. "When it's necessary."

That's how it went, day by day. Quiet respect. Growing familiarity. The unspoken rhythm of two people who had learned not to expect much from life—but who were slowly surprised to find comfort in the presence of another.

Opening the Past

It was during a late night cleaning session, just the two of them under the soft white LED glow of the empty café, that Alice finally asked the question she'd been holding back.

"Arthur," she said while refilling a drink station, "I've been wondering… you never talk about your family. Are they… around?"

He paused mid-wipe, cloth in hand, still as a statue.

"No," he said after a moment. "They're not."

Alice didn't push. She just waited.

Arthur resumed wiping the pod shell. "My father died first. It was... suicide. After he lost everything to people he trusted. My mother worked herself to death trying to keep us afloat. I was in the military when she died. I wasn't even there for her funeral."

There was no tremor in his voice. Just cold facts. Wounds too old to bleed.

Alice leaned against the counter, arms folded. Her gaze didn't waver.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I… I lost my parents when I was ten. Car accident. I was raised by my aunt until she passed too. This café… it's all I've got left of them. My dad loved games. Built machines like these before VR tech exploded."

Arthur looked up at her. There was something raw in her voice, something that mirrored him so closely it was uncomfortable.

"Then I guess we're both orphans living off borrowed peace," he said.

Alice gave a small, tired smile. "Maybe. Or maybe we're survivors building something of our own."

She turned to him. "Stay here as long as you want. Work. Live. No expectations. And if you ever decide to leave—just tell me first."

Arthur nodded. "Alright."

They exchanged a quiet smile and went back to work. But something unspoken had passed between them. A weight shared. A bond quietly sealed.

Two Months Later

"Okay, seriously," Alice said one night, arms crossed as she leaned on Arthur's table during a quiet shift. "You've been fixing these pods better than the original manufacturer for weeks. And you haven't played a single game. Not one?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't game anymore."

"Bullshit," she said, grinning. "You told me you were top-tier back in the day."

"I was twelve."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "So? Muscle memory doesn't age that fast. Come on. Just a test run."

Arthur hesitated. He looked at the pod like it was a coffin and a time machine at once.

"I don't even know how these new rigs work," he muttered.

"Even better. You'll experience them fresh," Alice said, already opening the interface. "Come on. Pod Seven's clean and updated. I'll monitor your sync rate. You'll love it."

Reluctantly, Arthur let her strap him in. The interior of the pod hummed with life. He felt the magnetic feedback latch around his fingers, the neural link buzz faintly in his skull.

The world blurred—

—and then he was inside.

The testing world was a sandbox environment. Neutral terrain, generic NPCs, a few basic weapons. But the moment Arthur moved—just one step forward—his body responded with a smoothness he hadn't felt in a decade.

I remember this, he thought, breathing in. The simulated air even smelled like rain.

The test drone appeared. Arthur's hand moved instinctively—duck, roll, grab. In one fluid motion, he disarmed the drone and flipped it into a wall. The entire action took under four seconds.

Back in the real world, Alice watched the sync rate spike.

[SYNC RATE: 92.4% … 93.1% … 94.6%]

She stood frozen. That was pro-tier. Near tournament levels. On a first try.

When Arthur disconnected, blinking back into the café, she stared at him.

"You said you don't game?"

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I don't. Not anymore."

The Rise of Zenith

The next morning, Alice shoved a data chip into his hands.

"It launches tonight," she said, eyes lit up. "Astral Genesis. Fully open-world, soul-core sim, first game designed with neural sync tech in mind. This… this is it."

Arthur stared at the name on the chip.

She pressed on. "Stream it. Just once. Let people see what you can do."

He raised an eyebrow. "You stream."

"Yeah," she said sheepishly. "But I'm average. You're… whatever you were last night."

Arthur paused. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Alright. One try."

Eight Months Later

The name "ZENITH" began circulating on gaming forums, leaderboard charts, even news aggregators. Anonymous and faceless—his streams were silent storms of strategy, mechanical perfection, and supernatural instincts.

Alice often joined the stream. Viewers loved her for her charm, banter, and how she occasionally flustered the cold, mysterious Zenith.

Their dual-streams became popular. The café grew busier. The tips flowed in. Some viewers even speculated they were a couple. Neither confirmed nor denied.

But off-camera, Arthur was still careful. Still watching the world from behind his eyes.

He wanted to wait. To become someone Alice could lean on—not just someone who leaned on her light.

Still, the bond was growing. The way she laughed at his rare jokes. The way he always made her tea before their streams. They were building something fragile and real.

Something worth protecting.